The Puppy (formerly known as Scruff)

The trail (and the street) provides.

It’s probably by the condoms, I texted Ian.

Scruff, a three-month old puppy, wiggled in my lap. Scruff had been living on the streets just a week earlier. I first saw him while I was getting coffee with a friend and a man was trying to unload a pair of puppies on the sidewalk.

“Lady wasn’t supposed to get pregnant,” he hollered, pointing his lit cigarette at a caramel-coated dog. Kernels of ash floated to the ground. Two puppies clawed at the air, the cement, each other. The scrappy chestnut one with mismatched paw socks was getting pummeled, in a way that seemed more establishment of pecking order than mutually enjoyable play.

“I just got out of jail and can’t keep these guys,” he said.

My friend and I flashed wide eyes at each other. Just the day before, I had talked to Ian about getting a second dog and he had kindly, but firmly, let me know he’d prefer that we stay a one-dog family. I think he knows that once we’re in a dogs plural situation, it’s a slippery slope between me wanting two dogs and, like, five. In a parallel life, I live on a goat farm with an ever-growing pack of dogs, and spend my days wandering the land with my four-legged best friends.

Regardless of whether we could keep him, we figured we could find him a better home than his current situation, so we cobbled together $50 in cash and walked away with Scruff. When I picked him up, he hooked his speckled paws over my arm. His heartbeat went from breaking the speed limit to coasting through a safety zone as he melted into me.

Later that week, I’d fully taken over Scruff care because I couldn’t get enough of him. He’d come out of his shell and was full-sending his puppyhood in an endlessly delightful way.

One of his favorite full throttle puppy moves (and mine, too), was sprinting at me and throwing his front paws on my thigh to get scooped up.

“Someone is going to have to train this out of you,” I told him, as he hopped into my arms and showered my face in puppy kisses.

“But that person is definitely not me.”

Ben had found Scruff the perfect home – on a goat farm, with a woman who spends her days with her ever-growing pack of animals. And I was clinging onto him until she could take him in on Monday morning.

I was determined to make sure he felt extremely loved, happy, and safe during his transition. We romped through the forest every morning with my dog, Dilly, and he snuggled into belly-up naps while I was writing in the afternoon. I was nailing the good, safe, loving home thing – until a fit of naughty puppy humping left him with a jammed penis that refused to go back where it belonged.

We frantically consulted vet friends, the internet, the local emergency vet clinic and concluded that an irretractable penis was, in fact, a medical emergency. So, we piled into the car and started beelining it to the vet. On our way, we got a text back from one of our “SOS puppy’s penis is stuck” messages:

“Definitely go to the vet, unless you can get it back in with lube.”

The emergency vet had warned us the procedure was an hours-long ordeal that would require stitching – and the subsequent taming of wild puppy behaviors that aren’t compatible with healing wounds. A little lube sounded like an infinitely better option than attempting to keep this scallywag from trying to dig his way to China in the backyard.

“Just a few more feet.”

We routed ourselves to the Safeway next to the vet. Parking lot lube as a first intervention, emergency medicine as a nearby backup. The internet stressed that water-based lubricant was preferable to petroleum-based, so Ian was scouring the aisles for something closer to KY Jelly than Vaseline.

I held Scruff close as I helped Ian navigate the grocery store lube selection via texts.

“Got it!” he wrote back. “Tell Scruff I’m on my way!”

I kissed the soft fur of Scruff’s forehead. “You are trouble, Mr. Scruff.”

He wormed deeper into me, like he was perfectly content to stay curled in my lap forever – and wasn’t on the brink of a medical emergency. I pulled him closer and thought: What would have happened if he was still living on the streets?

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Every thru-hiker has stories about “trail magic,” the unexpected acts of kindness that lifted them when they needed a little, or a big, boost. I’m more trail runner than thru-hiker, but I’ve collected lots of my own trail magic that’s helped me through rough patches:

The friends who hiked deep into the wilderness to surprise me with ice-cold Powerade during my Oregon PCT run, when I was still miles from relief on a sweltering summer day.

The serendipitous run-in with a southbound hiker who knew one of my mom’s best friends, and cast me a line of connection, when I was wading through grief on the trail.

The kind stranger who not only gave me a ride to a remote trailhead in the San Juans, but upon realizing I left my gloves in his jeep, remembered that I’d told him where I’d parked and where I was from, and drove an hour up a gnarly road to leave my gloves on the Oregon-plated car. “Because I know how hard an inconvenience can feel when something goes wrong,” he wrote on a windshield note.

When you’re in need, “the trail provides,” hikers say.

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The night before I met Scruff, I crumbled on a dance floor.

I’d been dealing with a knee injury for weeks and I’d been uncharacteristically calm about getting sidelined from running. But the foundation of my emotional stability was starting to crack as time and uncertainty stretched on. I missed trusting my body and being able to move without pain or discomfort or stress. I missed everything I get from running; the joy, release, connection.

Weekends were especially hard. When I woke up, I imagined my friends, packing their snacks and heading to a trailhead for hours of frolicking through the forest together. I would trade a kidney to dive back into those days.

So, when a running friend texted, “Emily! CharliXCX dance party Friday! Come BRAT with us!!!” I seized the chance to join, even if I might have to sway more than I could actually dance.

When we walked in, the lights were twerking, the walls were shaking, and everyone charged the DJ stand with as much jumping as an NBA playoff game. Even the inanimate objects in the room were moving.

I hung on the edge and swayed, feeling stressed about aggravating my knee and taunted by what I couldn’t do. Everyone was worshipping the driving beat, hands flying to the ceiling, feet pounding the floor. While I was stuck in stillness, with a body that refused to heal – unable to escape how much my injury was chipping away at me.

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As soon as Scruff careened into my life and home, I couldn’t think much about running – or what I was missing. My mind was full of the nonstop action of puppydom and the pint-sized tornado of love and chaos. He was a classic cattle dog Velcro puppy and I couldn’t so much as pee without Scruff trotting after me.

Scruff consumed every single second. With his irresistible puppy belly and his bottomless affection and his boundless energy – and his unfortunate penis mishap.

Luckily, our parking lot lube operation was a success, so we flashed a peace sign at the emergency vet clinic and drove away with a happy and healthy Scruff, who was unfazed by the whole affair. When we got home, he bolted for Dilly and hucked his body into another feisty round of wrestling (with me serving as the Hump Sheriff, ready to crackdown on any unnecessary thrusting).

“I just want to keep him for another week or twelve or forever,” I whined to Ian, as I begrudgingly got ready to hand him over the next morning. Scruff had needed no time to burrow his way into my heart.

But I knew it was time for Scruff to bound into his new home, new human, and new name. He was going to have the best life, herding goats and getting spoiled by love. And I was grateful I got to meet Scruff and play a small part in ushering him from being an unwanted mistake to the blissful existence he deserves.

As I drove across town with Scruff napping next to me one last time, I thought about how Dilly is also a street puppy. I wished I knew the full story that got him from an alley in California to a rescue in Eugene. What random chain of events and humans and small acts of kindness gave me my best friend? The dog who feels like someone waved a wand and said, “Abracadabra, here’s the most perfect dog in the world for Emily.”

Maybe someone went to a coffee shop that they hadn’t been to in years, looking for a 12-ounce cold brew and a quick hang with a friend. Maybe instead of getting a forgettable cup of coffee, they stumbled into a little street magic, right when some pup, or someone, needed it.